The tree whose shade we gladly take
or lean our backs against;
the sympathy we knows is there,
expressed, or sometimes, sensed
The horror in the days and nights
that’s soothed by simple words;
the low parts in the harmony,
the missing fifths and thirds
Just children in our happenstance,
simulacrums of fate —
a father to us all, be we
the early shoots, or late —
The sounds of work in the garage,
the quiet voice at meals;
the world is daily changed by those
who change the way it feels
We may outgrow our innocence,
the early flowers fade,
but while there still is sun, we all
could use a little shade
The ghost is in the house today,
the tremor in the hall —
and love finds home among the poor,
a father
to us
all
To share is human:
